


Tie Us Together

by buckyhug (kitaun)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Skinny!Steve, m/m - Freeform, more to be added - Freeform, punk!bucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-06-17
Packaged: 2018-01-27 01:28:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1709993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitaun/pseuds/buckyhug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky & Steve go to the same cafe everyday, & neither can quite ignore the other. Even as life causes them to fall together, Bucky's past & Steve's present are going to make things more difficult than either of them wanted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a co-authored work with the wonderful starspxngledman on tumblr -- with myself writing as bckybcrnes. While I will keep as close to the original writing as possible, I may change bits on here to make the writing flow more smoothly.

Steve sits in the corner of the same little cafe every single day, his sketchbook open, drawing whatever is outside of the window. Today it’s raining, and at the bus stop right outside there’s a particularly pretty girl with an umbrella- he draws the delicate line of her nose, her lips, the curve of her chin and the slope of her neck, and he’s careful to stick to how she really looks, because he’s never been one for exaggerating. He likes to draw things how he sees them. Maybe his own world view is a little skewed sometimes, but he tries to be a realist, even when he’s not drawing.

His eyes are dragged upward when there’s a scuffle, a young woman smacking the hands of a guy as he grab for her ass. She’s probably the same height as Steve with blonde hair and pink shoes. Then the guy says something Steve doesn’t dare repeat because it hurts just to listen to it, and that’s all it takes for him to be on his feet, pushing the rim of his glasses up his nose.

"Hey! Leave her alone."

It doesn’t take long before his nose is bleeding and there’s a black eye blossoming beneath his glasses. But at least the guy in question has been escorted outside and is walking away, but the girl in question seems more pitiful than grateful, watching Steve like he’s a kicked puppy. He looks away because he can’t stand it. He knows he’s little, knows he wasn’t even half a match for that guy, but he wasn’t about to let him get away with that. He holds the tissue to his nose, but it doesn’t really seem to be doing anything to stem the flow of blood, and he sighs. So many people are bigger than he, stronger — and yet they do nothing when they see girls being pushed around or people being bullied. It makes him sick, and he wishes he could do more. 

 

Bucky ends up going to the same cafe everyday for two reasons — habit, and the fact that he doesn’t often get stared at in the same manner as he does at the cafes on campus. The intricate tattoos that cross his chest and his arms — down to his wrists — are stared at as though they are disgusting, an affront to the eyes instead of art. He hates it, and it is the main reason he won’t go to the university cafes unless he’s so caffeine—deprived that he’s about to fall over. It’s been known to happen, once or twice.

There is a third reason, too. He’s not sure why he is so curious about the skinny guy who sits by the window drawing everyday, and yet his eyes always find him once he sits down, watches him draw, the elegant lines of the pencil across the page, the way blond hair falls over his face. Bucky does this while he waits for his coffee to cool, and then goes back to his books.

Sometimes he’ll peek over the top of the cover and wishes he could see what he was drawing.

Often he will come in with a split lip and a black eye, and Bucky’s fingers itch with the urge to protect, wondering who the hell would pick on someone who looks like he might snap in half at the slightest breeze.

Today, he sees why. He is pondering whether to go and help the girl himself when the stranger is already out of his seat, skinny frame decidedly unimposing even as he stands up for her. Bucky ignores his own fears of what he might think of him with his long hair and his tattoos, and rests a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," he says warmly, "You want me to take a look at that?” 

He might not be a medic, but he’s done his first aid courses, and he can’t pass up the chance to actually speak to him — and the rather large amount of blood gushing out of his nose is an obvious cause for concern. Bucky wonders how many times this guy has been punched in the face, and then decides that perhaps he would be better off not knowing. He tends to get overprotective sometimes — even for this little guy.

 

Steve’s not expecting help because he never gets help. No one goes to help the little guy with a mouth that’s far too big for his size because no one wants to get caught up in the trouble. He’s used to that, by now. This has been his life for a lot longer than the time he’s spent on campus, and it started becoming normal after a while. But it means that when he hears a voice that’s oddly warm he takes note, blue eyes flicking upward to catch who the voice belongs to.

And then his heart skips, because it’s _him_. He doesn’t have his name, but Steve knows his features by heart- he’s drawn them from a million different angles by now. Sometimes he’ll only draw little bits, the broad of his shoulders, his hand as it curls around his cup, because those are the things he can draw without needing to look too much. Sometimes he’s brave and he’ll draw a full portrait.

It’s one of the reasons why his sketch book is so quiet.

He nods, takes the tissue away from his nose so that the other can see. He doesn’t seem like the doctor type, but Steve’s not one to judge and he’s happy for the attention. He’s glad that someone’s decided to help, too. It’s been a long time since anyone has looked at him twice.

"Sure—- thanks."

Bucky slides his hand to cup his face, tilting his chin so he can get a better look at his bleeding nose. A faint smile tugs at his lips — this is the first time he has heard the stranger speak, and that’s something he has been wanting for such a long time. Maybe he’s a little bit of an old romantic, but he’s long since given up trying to temper that part of himself. It’s so deeply engrained in his bones that he doubts he could ever get it out.

"It’s not broken," he says after a minute, "But I’d get some ice on that, and the eye too — where else did he get you?"

His voice is full of concern, dark eyes filled with an unidentifiable emotion. He waits a minute before he drops his hand back into his lap, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed — perhaps he is coming on too strong? He doesn’t know. His brief time in the army left him a little unsettled now when it came to casual conversation. Keeping to himself is a lot simpler, and most people are content to leave him be. The tattoos and eyebrow piercing definitely helped with that.

"I’m Bucky," he offers, a lopsided smile lightening his face, "Bucky Barnes. You — I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I?"

He tugs down the sleeve of his left arm idly, curling the cuff around his hand. The accident that took him from the army and back to civilian life nearly cost him his arm — and even the inked patterns on his skin can’t cover the scarred tissue from the burns.

 

Steve sits very still, pliant underneath the other’s hands. He observes him as he checks him over, and he’s suddenly craving to draw him like this; close up, where he can properly see every line of his features, every curve and crevice. There are pale freckles on his nose, and his hair falls in his face when he ducks his head — it’s strangely endearing.

He nods; he suspected as much. It’s been broken enough times for him to know what that feels like now. “Got me in the ribs, but I don’t think he broke anything.” Broken ribs, too — he knows what broken ribs feel like. It was not a memory he intended on repeating.

He returns the tissue to his nose but it’s stopped bleeding now, and he notes instead that the man’s hand is still touching his cheek. It’s hardly unwelcome but it makes him pause, meeting those dark eyes that he’s sure are just as full of concern as his voice. He’s not pitying him, at least. It makes Steve like him just a little bit more, if that’s even possible.

He gives a brighter smile, taking the tissue away properly. “Steve Rogers.” He offers. He nods, and he flushes a little; the fact that he’s been anything more than invisible to Bucky is frankly unbelievable. “Probably. I mean—- I’m here every day, so…”

He looks back to his table in the corner, at the left over coffee that’ll be stone cold now, and the sketchbook that lies closed with his pencil mark his place. The lady at the bus stop is gone, and no one can see his illustrations, so he looks back at Bucky with a soft smile. It’s still raining, he realises, but he doesn’t mind so much anymore. 

 

Bucky notices how he blushes, stammers, and then catches the quick look to his table where a cold coffee and his sketchbook sits. He picks up his own coffee, and gives the other a soft smile. He has a name to go with the face now — Steve. It’s a nice name, Bucky thinks. He’s not known a Steve before — it’s a name that belongs to no one else.

"Want me to get you another coffee? We can — I mean, I’ll just leave you alone if you want now."

He feels vaguely mortified at how he is tripping over his words, but he wants to spend time with Steve, wants to get to know him from conversation and not just stolen glances over the top of his textbooks. The heat from the coffee mug against his hand becomes uncomfortable, and he shifts a little. Maybe he’s a little oversensitive to heat after the accident, but then who could blame him?

He knows that now his curiosity about Steve will be insatiable — he knows where those bruises come from and just the thought of the little guy trying to protect other people makes him smile. It’s good to know that there are still people out there who care, who want to make a difference even when it leaves them more hurt than they started off. Bucky has seen too many people left to the harsh reality of the world, with no one looking out for them — not even someone like Steve.

 

Steve nods a little too eagerly and then stops himself, blushes a little harder and pushes the bridge of his glasses further up his nose. He wasn’t expecting the offer, but it isn’t unwelcome — he might as well. He’s got nowhere to be and nothing else to do, and as if he’d pass up an opportunity to have coffee with his main muse. Of course, he’s not planning on showing Bucky any portraits unless he asks.

"No, no, I’d like that. Thanks."

It’ll be nice to finally get to know him, to know what he’s studying and what type of coffee he drinks, to at least know the basic things about him. He thinks there’s a lot more to Bucky than meets the eye; or at least, he hopes so. When he draws him he imagines that he’s complicated, complex, because his features are so simple - although so beautiful - that what’s underneath must be complex in some way. M aybe talking for a while would help ease the pain, the throbbing in his head and the ache in his abdomen. Usually after a fight he’ll go home, because he doesn’t like staying out with blood on his face and his dignity damaged, but if he’s got Bucky to talk to then he’s not so sure that he minds. He doesn’t seem to think any less of him for having the crap kicked out of him.

 

Bucky beams at Steve and heads to the counter, asking for another one of whatever Steve had had, and then watching the other as he headed back to his table. He wonders what Steve draws in that sketchbook, itches to look through those pages to see what he can learn about him from what captures his attention — has he drawn Bucky? He barely even dares to think it.

He takes the drink over to Steve once he has paid, setting it down and sitting in the chair opposite with another warm smile, hardly able to believe that this is finally happening, that Steve is even more wonderful than he had imagined. Maybe he’s a sap — but Bucky doesn’t give a shit. He’s been called worse, after all.

"There you go — are you sure you’re okay? I can drive you to see a doctor if you need one. I don’t want you to have gotten concussion or broken a rib without realising."

He chews on his lip, brows furrowing in obvious concern. He has the absurd urge to reach out, stroke Steve’s palm with his fingertips as though he will learn more about him by touching his skin.  Bucky holds on very tightly to his coffee mug instead. 

 

Steve gives him a genuinely happy, and genuinely grateful, smile, and settles into his seat. It makes Bucky smile wider, and he relaxes his grip on the mug a little.

Steve aches but it’s alright, because he’s getting coffee with Bucky and it wasn’t even him who offered. And he’s pretty sure it’s not out of pity, so that’s a separate victory all it’s own. Steve is absolutely no stranger to pity. He’s little and his mouthy and he gets his ass kicked a lot for fights that aren’t really his. Who wouldn’t take pity on a kid like that? He doesn’t want pity, no he wants someone to understand that it doesn’t matter how big or small you are — bullies shouldn’t be tolerated, and injustice shouldn’t simply be accepted as a part of everyday life.

He murmurs a thank you, wrapping skinny fingers around his mug. The warmth of the mug is certainly a good feeling, seeing as his hands are always cold, but the warmth of Bucky’s smile is even better. It makes him wonder if Bucky actually likes him. Y’know-— _likes_ him, likes him.  His worrying is kind of appreciated too. After his ma died, Steve hasn’t really had anyone to worry after him. He doesn’t spend a lot of time worrying about himself; he gets into far too much trouble for that. At least he can help other people by looking out for them.

"I’m fine, really. I know a broken rib when I’ve got one. And I’m pretty sure I’m not concussed. But thanks, anyway. I appreciate it."

He gives a small smile and sips at his coffee, running his thumb around the rim. He’ll have to repay him for this, in some way. He just doesn’t feel right about him paying for the coffee and not giving him anything towards it.

 

Bucky shakes his head in disbelief — and quietly angry that someone has broken Steve’s ribs before, enough times that he knows what it feels like. He notices the pinkness of the other’s cheeks, the smile on his face and wonders if maybe he’s feeling this spark between them too. He sure hopes so — who cares if he’s skinny, he’s still gorgeous, and he is honestly the kindest person Bucky has ever met, even if they only have just started talking. Not many people will stand up to an asshole three times their size.

"Maybe you should get someone to watch you for a few hours, just in case," he blurts out, "Wake you up every few hours. Y’know. Better to be safe than sorry."

He’s had a concussion before, and he would hate to think of Steve having to go through that when he could avoid it. Hate to think of him _alone._ Maybe he has someone at home though, a flatmate, a parent, someone to look after him. Whoever it is, Bucky hopes that they look after Steve as much as he deserves — though, considering the fight, he considers that maybe they don’t.

"What do you study?"

The question comes a little out of nowhere, but he is desperate to know more about him, to get some sense of who this man is other than having a heart too big for the rest of him.

 

Steve’s smile fades quickly at the suggestion and he takes a sip of his coffee to try and cover that up; he doesn’t have anyone. Not a single person. He lives on his own because it’s better that way, and he’s not got any family left, no friends. No one wants to be friends with the sick kid, and when you’ve been on your own for the majority of your life making friends seems kind of difficult. He can’t talk to girls or guys—- it’s a miracle he’s gotten so far through a conversation with Bucky. He doesn’t really have anyone.

"I don’t—- uh—- I’m pretty much on my own, so—- I don’t know. I’ll call an ambulance if I feel funny, or something."

Which is going to be a fantastic plan if he actually does fall unconscious, because he’s not sure anyone would miss him anyway. He might go unnoticed for a while. He doesn’t like that thought very much at all and so he once again pushes his glasses up his nose and fiddles with the scuffed corner of his sketchbook, torn and worn from so much use.

"Art." He answers. "Kinda considering illustrating for a living. What about yourself?"

Art’s the only thing he’s confident about. He could talk Bucky’s ear off about art, as long as he got to keep his sketches to himself. The ones from today aren’t too bad. That girl from the bus stop, his coffee cup, and a cat that was sat on his windowsill this morning. None of Bucky. He hadn’t had time for his mind to wander over there yet before he’d got himself into trouble.

 

Bucky ignores the part of him that tells him he is being an idiot, that he shouldn’t care this much about a man he has just spoken to. Instead, he lets his gaze wander from Steve’s face to the partially concealed sketchbook, looking back up into blue eyes that leave him momentarily breathless.

"Come to my flat," he says, and he’s not meaning anything else by it, he just wants to make sure that Steve is okay, "I can make sure you’re alright. If you’re unconscious, you can’t call an ambulance," he shrugs, smiles, "I’ll even make you dinner."

Oh — he’s definitely flirting now, his mouth having decided on ignoring his usual filter and simply going ahead and saying what he’s thinking. He ducks his head, cheeks a little pink and hopes desperately that Steve isn’t going to run as fast as he can in the opposite direction.  

"English," he answers after a pause, lifting one shoulder in a half shrug, "I uh — I write poetry, sometimes. I don’t know if I could do it for a living but, I’d like to. I was in the military for a little bit when I was sixteen. I’ve got a lot to write about."

He isn’t sure what it is that is just so compelling about Steve, but he feels as though he can trust him, can tell him things that usually he tries to keep buried.

 

Steve’s eyes widen at the offer, and he stares at Bucky for a moment to wonder whether or not he really means that of he’s finally cracked and he’s offering out of pity. He’s not going to say no. It would be nice to have someone to look after him, he thinks, because he is so used to taking care of himself, and Bucky’s right—- he can’t call an ambulance if he’s unconscious.

And the offer of dinner sounds good too, even if he thinks he’s being flirted with a little. He doesn’t think he minds that though. After so long sketching Bucky’s features, watching him, wondering if he knows who Steve even is and wonders about him in turn, it’s nice to think that maybe he has a chance with this guy. Nice, but it’ll be heart breaking in the long run, when Bucky’s not at all interested and Steve was just getting the wrong message.

He nods, lifting his mug to take another sip of the coffee. He always wondered what he was doing, because he never could see him doing something like science, or a humanity subject like History. He just doesn’t seem the type. But English suits him. And his eyebrows raise at the mention of the military, quietly impressed.

"Wow." He murmurs, hands wrapping around his mug. "The military. That’s pretty brave. Being so young, too." He holds quiet respect for anyone in the military. It’s something he’d do if he weren’t so little, if they’d take him. Protecting his country, protecting the innocent. Feels like something he’d want to do.

 

Bucky feels slightly taken aback by Steve’s respectful tone, and shifts a little in his chair, his scarred arm aching just at the mention. He wonders what Steve would think if he knew of the accident that had taken that dream from him — that he had barely left the training camp before he was left unable to serve his country. It had not been his own dream to begin with, but it was better than wandering aimlessly alone.

"I wasn’t there long," he says finally, "Only just got out of training when — well. I was discharged. Medical reasons."

He leaves it at that, not wanting to elaborate all that much on a memory that he still has nightmares about. He would always burn at night, feel the flames licking his skin, the heat surrounding him in smoke and oppressive darkness that left him gasping.

He inclines his head at the sketchbook, eyes softening as he returns his gaze to Steve’s beautiful blue eyes.

"Can I — can I look at some of them?"

He won’t be offended if Steve says no — he doesn’t think he would let Steve read most of his poems just yet — even the thought leaves his palms feeling a little sweaty, his cheeks staining a rosy pink. He has never read his poems to anyone who actually knows him — simply as an anonymous face on a stage.

 

S teve shrugs, and gives Bucky a small smile. He’s still impressed, no matter how long he spent there, and no matter the reason for leaving. He notes just how clipped Bucky sounds, how he doesn’t elaborate, and that’s okay. Steve’s not going to push him. He knows what it’s like to be pestered, by his mother and doctors and strangers alike, and he knows when to stop. So he leaves it.

"Still pretty brave." He says, and he decides to leave it at that, giving him a small smile as he once again pushes the bridge of his glasses further up his nose.

He watches Bucky’s gaze flick to his sketchbook, and his heart skips a beat before it thuds faster, hearing his pulse in his ears. He doesn’t know if he’s going to ask to see it or not, and Steve’s not sure what his response would be if he did—- although he’s like to say no, because there’s sketches of Bucky in there and he’ll be so embarrassed if he sees, he’s not sure he can deny him anything after he bought him a coffee and actually paid some attention to him. His mouth might run away from his brain.

And of course, he’s right. He nods before he can stop himself, and says, “Go ahead.”

He flushes, but he’s said yes now, and so all he can do is blink a few times and grip his coffee cup a little tighter as he lets him grab it. Maybe he’ll only look at the sketches from today, the lady at the bus stop, the cat on his windowsill and the few sketches of his coffee cup and the New York skyline, but maybe he won’t. Maybe he’ll go deeper. Steve just hopes it won’t put him off.

 

Bucky beams at him and tugs the sketchbook over, careful to keep his coffee well away from the pages and flipping it open to where the pencil is still inside. Steve’s eye for detail is incredible, a passion for his art and surroundings clear in the strokes of the pencil — or at least, to Bucky’s eyes. He wants to flip back a little ways, and so he dares to go back one more page, fingertip brushing the New York skyline, a cat curled asleep in a single ray of sunlight. It seems as though Steve is just as talented with his hands as Bucky is with his words — strangely compatible in a way that makes Bucky feel something warm curling in his chest. 

“These are amazing,” he says softly, glancing back up to Steve with a note of reverence in his voice. He wants to look more, but he doesn’t want to overstep a line — his own poems are private, personal in a way that he is sure Steve will feel about his art too. “You’re really skilled, you know. I bet you could be an illustrator without any trouble.”

He pushes the book away before he can give into temptation and finishes his coffee with a satisfied hum, the bittersweet liquid pleasantly warm on his tongue. He's always been a sucker for a good coffee -- tea has never really hit the spot in the same way.

"Come on," he says, standing and almost offering a hand to Steve before he remembers that he needs to behave, "Let's go." 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky & Steve begin to get to know each other -- with plenty of blushing & stammering in the mix.

2.

Steve gives him a small, almost nervous smile, and watches him carefully. His heart thuds in his chest, almost hurting it’s going so fast, and he takes another shaky sip of his coffee just for something to do. He doesn’t know why, but he feels the need to impress Bucky, to show him that he’s actually pretty good, he’s got something to make up for the scrawny size and the lack of conversational skills. He can look at one of his works and grade it good or bad or okay, decide where it needs improvements, but now that Bucky’s leafing through his sketch book he doubts the appearance of every single thing he’s ever drawn in his life, never mind in that particular sketch book. Art is the thing he’s got going for him. He kind of needs that if he wants to impress Bucky as easily as the other impressed him.

He blushes a deep shade of scarlet and smiles, beams in fact, taking the coffee mug away from his face. “Thanks.” He says, and he looks over to meet his gaze before his eyes flick back to the book itself; he can vaguely see the corner of his sketch of the skyline, shaded in biro for lack of anything better. “Well lets hope so. Not a lot else I’d be good at.”

He takes the book back, pulling it across the table towards his mug. The pages are stained with coffee and food and ink but he still likes it. He thinks it only adds to the character of it. He takes the last sip of his coffee and picks the book up, tucking it back into his bag.

He nods and follows his lead, standing and attempting not to trip. “You don’t have to do this, y’know.”

Bucky shakes his head, dark eyes warm and soft as they meet Steve’s gaze, “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” 

He says it as though it is the most obvious thing in the world, an almost serene smile curving his lips as he leads Steve out of the cafe and towards the rickety car parked out front. His parking skills are a little questionable, one tire half on the kerb and the back end jutting out a little — but he’s good enough at driving to have passed his test, so he figures he can’t be that bad. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he gives Steve another friendly smile — hoping that the guy doesn’t think he’s planning to kidnap him or something. Hey, Bucky has been taught about stranger danger too. 

The car takes a few goes to start up, the engine coughing into life after several false attempts. Bucky glances over to make sure Steve has buckled up his seatbelt before pulling out, leaning hard on the horn as a driver nearly cuts him off, and waving his middle finger out of the window.

"Ass," he mutters under his breath, turning left at an intersection and towards his flat. He is glad he doesn't have to share -- while communal sharing at University is the norm, Bucky knows that with his PTSD and fucktonne of other issues, he wouldn't be an ideal room-mate. Hell, Steve is the first person he has been brave enough to start a conversation with in months.

"How are you feeling now?" he asks, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel as they wait at a turning, "Not dizzy or anything?”

That shakes Steve just a little; he’s never felt wanted, not in a long time. He’s never really had anyone want to do something, anything, for him since his ma died, so it’s a bit of a shock to the system. And he gives him a small smile, waiting until he’s turned away to beam at him.

The car is old and rickety, but it suits him, Steve thinks. Maybe his parking is a bit iffy, but Steve can’t drive at all, so he can’t really judge, and he slips into the car as Bucky does, and he turns to return the smile he gives him. He’s definitely glad that he doesn’t have to walk. He’s pretty sure he’s not concussed, but he still thinks he would be a little dizzy, just from the blow to his head knocking off his balance rather than anything else (and really, he doesn’t have every good balance at the best of times), and he doesn’t want to fall. He doesn’t need to hurt himself anymore, and he doesn’t want Bucky to regret the offer he made for him being more trouble than he’s worth.

He gives a soft chuckle at the finger Bucky raises to tell the car in front just how he feels, and he decides the he most definitely, certainly, likes him. he likes people who speak their mind, even if Bucky’s method of doing so is a little crude. At least he didn’t let them just get off with it. Steve is a big believer in the idea that people should know when they’ve done wrong.

Steve pushes the bridge of his glasses up his nose, and considers maybe getting a pair that fit better, before changing his train of thought and considering the question Bucky directs at him.

"No more than usual." he answers, giving him an almost wry smile. 

The smile is returned, Bucky glancing away from the road in order to bump Steve's shoulder with his own. He's noticed the habit of pushing his glasses up his nose, and he cannot deny the small and pleasant flutter he gets when he does it. It's almost painfully cute, and he's just hoping that he doesn't make an idiot out of himself. In a few more minutes they are parking outside of Bucky's flats, with slightly more finesse than when he had parked outside the cafe.

Steve smiles a little wider when Bucky’s shoulders bumps his own, and though he’s known him all of ten minutes he’s pretty sure he’s made a friend, and that’s a feeling that he enjoys immensely. He directs his gaze to out of the window and realises he’s in a neighbourhood he doesn’t recognise; Steve does often stray from the area he knows to draw something he thinks is pretty, but he’s never been around here before. He’ll be relying on Bucky to get him back safely, whenever it is he turfs him out of his apartment.

 

"Let me know if you feel sick," Bucky insists, getting out of the car and slamming the door twice before it shuts, "Concussion is serious, trust me. Don't pretend you're fine if you feel iffy." 

Steve nods as he gets out of the car, giving him a reassuring kind of smile. “I will do. Scout’s honour.”

Bucky opens the door, fumbling for his keys before jamming them in the lock and unlocking it with a sharp click. He hasn't tidied for a few days, and he feels instantly embarrassed at the scruffy mess of things, cluttered objects covering shelves, books scattered everywhere. At least it's clean, he muses.

"Uh so, this is home. Feel free to get comfy, the couch is pretty nice. Bedroom is that way -- let me know if you want to nap, it's fine. Bathroom is next to there, and kitchen is through here. Is spaghetti and meatballs okay for dinner?”

Steve waits patiently as Bucky opens the door, and he kind of likes the untidiness he finds. It makes it feel far more like home, a little more welcoming, and he smiles softly. There’s books scattered everywhere, and as much as Steve wants to look at each one, try to profile a type of literature that Bucky enjoys, he always wants to sketch it. This organised chaos. There are things littering every available surface but Steve bets that Bucky knows where everything is really, and he wants to draw this little piece of his life; something he never thought he’s get to know about him before today.

Bucky knows he's rambling, and quickly snaps his mouth shut, chewing idly on his lip as he waits for an answer, watching as Steve looks around the flat. Shit, he really does have to tidy more often.

"Y’know, you don’t have to feed me." Steve says, and he winces when he realises just how he made that sound like he was a stray dog that Bucky was taking pity on. He gives him a small smile anyway, because he means it. Honestly, he’s not expecting so much kindness from him. He really isn’t. Force of habit, really. He’s not used to anyone looking twice in his direction. 

Bucky can’t help but to look at Steve. He’s not sure what it is, the ocean—blue eyes or the soft blond hair, maybe it’s the way he smiles — but god, he’s totally captivated. He can't help but admire the quiet strength in him, the elegant skill in those slim hands. He's probably been watching too many romantic indie films for his own good, but he cannot help the thoughts from entering his mind.

"I like to cook," he says with a half--shrug, "And you're my guest -- it's only polite."

In truth he's only recently learnt to cook, having taught himself in the hours where literature and university and everything isn't quite enough to keep the memories at bay. He finds a kind of peace in being able to follow the steps, instructions that others have also followed -- pieces of something coming together to make a whole.

It may be his soul as poet that lends him more meaning to words and actions than everyone else sees, but Bucky tries to take strength in these things that he notices. It's a hell of a lot better than returning to the psych ward.

"I can wait to cook, if you're not hungry," he bites his lip again, then shakes his head and slumps gracefully in one of the chairs, leaving the sofa for Steve in case he does want to nap, "Really, it's fine. I want to help. I thought what you did was really brave. It was -- strong."

Steve gives him a grateful smile, and a nod. “Thanks.” He murmurs. He’s still not used to someone wanting to do things for him, cooking for him and the like, or even if it just out of politeness, but he could get used to it from Bucky. He doesn’t seem to mind, seems genuinely happy to help. Steve’s so glad he got the chance to know him because he always thought that he would be like this. He’s glad he got the chance to confirm his suspicions.

He sits himself down on the sofa that Bucky’s left vacant, and feels oddly small as he sits on it, pressed against the arm rest. He props his head up with one hand, and looks around the room. One of the lenses of his glasses is just pressing against his black eye now, and he grimaces a little to himself.

"I don’t mind." He says, trying to be polite in turn. "Whenever you want to make it." He shrugs, and gives him yet another smile. It’s hard not to smile at Bucky. He’s not sure what it is about him, but when he sees him he finds that he just can’t help himself. His lips automatically stretch and tug upwards, even when he tries not to.

He starts a little, eyebrows raising. “Strong?” He asks, and he blinks a few times just to focus. He’s never been called strong in his entire life, nothing he’s ever done has been strong- not even when he was sick, bed-bound when he was a kid. He was always told to "hang in there", never to "stay strong", and though he wants to say thank you, he sighs. “Wouldn’t call it strong. Dumb, maybe.”

Bucky shakes his head, resisting the sudden urge to reach over and take his hand, squeeze it gently — as though he could convince him just through touching him. He folds his hands in his lap in case he forgets that he needs to make a good impression, fiddling with the hem at the cuff of his hoodie. He knows it’s nearly time to take his medication but he doesn’t want to do so while Steve is here — maybe he could sneak off to the bathroom and get it? 

“Not dumb. It’s important that people realise there are people who want to help, you know? So many people lose hope because no one sticks up for them. Even one person can make a difference. Hell, I noticed you. It made me feel better.” 

He shuts his mouth abruptly, afraid that he is rambling. It is a habit he has fallen into, after being silent for so long once PTSD had sunk its claws into him. Now he finds it harder to find the right words when he speaks aloud, and yet the come to him effortlessly when he writes. It’s the truest way he can find to express himself. The words that escape him when he speaks are there immediately when he presses pen to paper.

He wonders if it's the same for Steve, if he doesn't know what he's drawing until his pencil hits the page. Maybe one day, when he's feeling braver, he'll ask him.

Steve likes the rambling. He’s a pretty quiet person, so Bucky’s chatter is more than enough for him to fill in the silence he creates himself. And anyway, most of what he’s saying is pretty relevant and it makes Steve smile anyway, inwardly, because it’s not often he’s told that what he does is anything but stupid. He’s been told that what he does, standing up for people, is a dozen different things, but never strong. Always idiotic, or dumb.

He notices him fiddling with the cuff of his hoodie, and he wonders if that a habit of his. He looks down at the sleeve of his shirt, which he’d rolled down not too long ago, and realises there’s blood at the hem. He grimaces, and occupies himself with rolling the sleeves back up. He liked this shirt, too.

"As long as it’s doing some good, I guess. And at least— at least he left her alone. Doesn’t matter what else he did."

And by that he means his bloody nose and his black eye and the potential concussion he has, but he means it. At least that girl didn’t have to put up with it any longer, and he smiles softly at the thought. As long as he’s managing to do some good, he doesn’t think he minds all the injury. He can deal with it if it’s for a good reason. He glances back from his sleeve to Bucky, who is still watching him with his lips tugged in a warm smile. It’s a nice smile, he thinks. 

“It matters to me,” Bucky says softly, “He could have hurt you worse. And I’m pretty sure you have been hurt worse, if you know what broken ribs feel like. People should — well. If everyone was kinder, the world would be a far better place anyway.” 

He shrugs, chewing on his lip before he realises that he’s meant to be taking care of Steve, not just complimenting his many virtues. He stands from the chair, heading to the kitchen to get out a pack of frozen peas, which he hands over to the other, noticing again how small he seems, hunched on his sofa.

”I don’t have any ice packs, but you might want that for your nose. Or your head — or whatever. I’ve got more frozen stuff if you need another one. Do you need a nap? Or did you want me to cook?” 

He resists the urge to shake his head at how he bumbles around Steve, flopping back in his chair and pretending that the blush on his cheeks isn’t making his face warm. He realises that several of his notebooks are laying around the room, some of them left open, and he hopes that Steve won't look at any of them. Not that Bucky is really worried, if Steve is the type to stand up to a guy three times his size, he would probably be respectful of Bucky's privacy.

Steve shrugs his shoulders, but there’s a small smile on his lips. It matters to him. It matters to Bucky. And even it just mattering to someone is better than nothing, and so Steve gives him a smile that’s surely wider than ever he’s given so far. But then he catches himself, and he tries to hide it, looking away for a moment.

"I—- Well—- yeah. I have been. I guess."

He’s not sure why he’s stuttering now; maybe it’s because he thinks he might actually have a chance with Bucky, at least to be his friend. He knows he’d kill for the chance to have even more than that, but they’ve only just started talking. And Steve’s not exactly brave, not when he should be, so that’s never going to happen even if he wanted it to.

He watches as Bucky leaves, brow furrowing a little until he returns. He gave him a grateful smile as he took the packet of frozen peas, and took his glasses off, setting them down on the arm of the chair beside him so that he can press the packet to his eyes. His nose is fine, now, but his eye is beginning to swell and with the frame of his glasses pressing against it, it’s starting to hurt.

"This is fine, really. Thanks. Thank you. I mean you could cook if—- if you want to. If that’s alright."

He doesn’t want to push, because he’s a guest here, and he knows he’s blushing too as he watches Bucky flop back into his seat. His gaze catches open books with scrawly handwriting, open text books and stuff like that, but he doesn’t look. Bucky asked him if he could look at his sketchbook and Steve would ask before he dared look at any of his work. 

“I can cook,” Bucky replies, an easy smile curving his mouth, “Or we can get takeout. Honestly, I don’t mind — though there’s a pretty damn awesome pizza place near here. But I’ll cook if you want. I’ve got stuff in my fridge, promise.” 

His features twist into one of concern when he sees Steve remove his glasses and press the packet of frozen peas to his eye, wishing that he could do something more helpful than simply give him food and a place to stay. Though, that is probably more than some would. He drags a hand through his messy hair, stretching his arms so that the tattoos on his arms become a little more obvious. The scarring only just peeks out, and Bucky lowers his arms and folds them in his lap when he notices. Odd — usually he doesn’t relax around others so easily.

Steve is different though, he can tell. He’s special — he means something. Bucky just isn’t sure what yet.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

The atmosphere in the room is warm and comfortable, and Bucky has no problem feeling calm and at ease in Steve's presence. Usually it's hard for him to converse with new people, he feels self-conscious about his scars even if they are hidden. Steve is different ---- his face is kind and sweet, and the earnest look in his blue eyes makes him smile a little more easily. Strange, for a man he has just met ---- but then, Bucky used to believe in fate. At least until the accident ---- maybe Steve will be what causes him to trust in that again.

"Take out might be nice. I think I’ve earned it. -—But I’ll pay my share, ‘course."

His eyes stings, but he tries not to react too visibly. Bucky’s obviously concerned, as said so himself, pretty much, and Steve doesn’t want to worry him any further. He shifts a little, but it causes pain to shoot across is ribcage, causing a far too visible wince and a soft hiss to fall from his lips. His eyes flick to Bucky, to gauge his reaction, and he catches a glimpse of the tattoos across his arms. He likes them, he’s sure of that. Steve appreciates art in all of its forms. He’s sure he sees something, like the hint of a scar, because he’s all too familiar with those, but he can’t be sure. He’s not about to ask, either.

"I—- I like your tattoos. When’d you get ‘em?"

He smiles softly, eyes tracing the skin he can see- well, one eye traces the skin he can see. His other is still hidden behind the packet of peas, which are thawing a lot more quickly than he had hoped. He wants to ask why he got them, if there’s a meaning behind them, but he has a feeling they might be pretty similar to the poetry, and he’s a little scared to ask.

The compliment takes Bucky off guard, but his features instantly brighten into a smile, and he rolls up his sleeve of the unscarred arm, showing the ink to the other with a small amount of pride. There are more that trace onto his chest, and he's thinking of getting a larger piece on his back, but he doesn't feel quite confident enough to strip off for Steve just yet. The very thought makes him blush a little too much for his liking.

"I started getting them as soon as I turned eighteen," he says softly, "After that, I've not really stopped. Get a bit more done when I have money for it.”

Steve shifts closer to Bucky, not yet getting up off the sofa though, and he takes the peas away from his eye in order to look at them properly. He doesn’t want to put his glasses back on with his eyes so sore, and so he’ll have to be close to be able to see. His head tilts as he looks, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He really does appreciate art in all it’s forms, and Bucky’s tattoos are certainly something to be marvelled at. For a moment he reaches out, fingers wanting to trace the dark lines along his skin, and then he catches himself, brings his hand back to his lap. He grabs the peas to press them back to his eye, just as a distraction, despite how they’re thawing.

"They’re really something." Steve murmurs, gaze flicking up to meet Bucky’s, a small smile on his lips.

Bucky stays still enough to let Steve look at the art covering his skin for a little longer before he stands up, reaching for the phone and tossing a rather impressively large stack of take out menus towards Steve. He laughs when he realises just how many he has, shaking his head. He doesn't even order take out all that often.

"You pick," he says warmly, settling back down in his seat, "I'll eat anything, really. And there are a lot of places to choose from around here.”

Steve’s eyes follow Bucky as he stands, and the stack of menus is a little bit of a surprise. He tries to catch them as best he can, putting the peas down again and deciding to just leave them there; they’re not doing his eye very much good now anyway.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, idly wondering whether Steve would laugh at him if he put it up. He often shoves it into a ponytail or a bun, just to keep it from his face, though he usually doesn't bother when he's just nipping to the coffee shop.

He snaps a hair elastic from his wrist while Steve decides, gathering his hair into a loose ponytail at the nape of his neck, and puffing the stray strands of hair from his face, tucking them behind his ear.

Steve looks through the pile of menus thoughtfully — he doesn’t often order takeout, but like anyone, he has his favourites. He picks out the menu for the pizza place that he has ordered from before, scanning it for a moment and then looks up to Bucky. He’s about about to ask if they can get a pizza when he stops.  
The loose ponytail is a very good look, Steve decides, and he blushes when he realises just how long he’s been staring. 

“We could, uh—- we could get a pizza.” He says, holding the menu out to him. “I like this place.”

Bucky wonders what it is he’s said to get that pink blush to rise on Steve’s cheeks, and decides in that moment that it is a look that he very much likes on Steve. Ignoring the way his heart thuds a little faster in his chest, he takes the menu and gives it a quick look over. He’s not ordered from there before, but he’s definitely inclined to trust Steve’s judgement.

"Which pizza do you want?" he asks, chewing on his lip as he has a look himself, picking one after only a few moments, "And did you want a get a can of something from there too?"

He’s excited, he realises —— it has been a long time since he has relaxed with someone like this, able to form sentences without panic building in his chest. He wonders what it is about Steve that makes this so easy, that has kept Bucky from making a fool out of himself like he has done so many times before. He wants to find out —— and he really hopes that they will see each other again.

"It looks tasty," he muses aloud, then darts a look up to Steve with a warm, lopsided smile gracing his features. For once, he’s going to have something good to talk about with his therapist —— and that’s something he can be glad of. He wants to talk about Steve to anyone who will listen.

"Just plain if that’s- y’know, if that’s okay." Steve says, and he pushes his glasses back up his nose, as is his habit, only to wince when the frames meet his bruised eye. He tries to ignore it though, and gives Bucky an almost sheepish smile. "I’m allergic to a lot of stuff, so y’know. ‘s easier just to get a plain one. But whatever you want."

He has an almighty long list of allergies, along with his list of medical conditions and diseases he’s contracted in his time, and it’s an absolute miracle that he hasn’t got a medical bill that he’ll be paying for the rest of his life. He does get ill quite a lot still, but he knows when he needs to go to hospital and when he doesn’t, which is why he’s here and not there, really.

"It’s a good place." He nods, and he looks up to be greeted with the lopsided smile, and his stomach flips a little. He already knows that he wants to spend more time with Bucky, to learn every single smile in his repertoire, every expression he has. He wants to memorise his face, map his entire body, every tattoo and every mark. It’s a little soon for that though; Steve just hopes he’ll see him again soon. 

Bucky nods and goes to dial, ordering a plain pizza and some chips and drinks for them both. The man on the other end of the phone tells him it'll be about half an hour, and Bucky hangs up with a yawn, flopping back in his seat and smiling warmly at Steve. It's nice, sitting here with him.

"You feeling okay?" he asks, having noticed the flinch when Steve pushed his glasses up his nose in what was an undeniably adorable habit, "Maybe I should drive you to the doctors tomorrow. I mean. If you stay over."

He ignores the blush that tints his cheeks, rolls his eyes at himself and lets himself fall back against the chair, eyes fluttering shut as he wonders why it is he is blessed with the habit of rambling like an idiot when it comes to people he likes. It's not just that though, he honestly is worried about Steve, and while he is here, Bucky can help him. He wants to help him as much as he can. 

The yawn is contagious, but only because Steve is actually quite tired. He covers his mouth with his hand as he yawns and settles into the side of the sofa, trying so hard not to fall asleep. He doesn’t want to be a burden on Bucky, despite how welcoming he’s been so far. He’s unaccustomed to help, and he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome.

"I’m fine." He lies, giving him a small smile. He runs a hand through his hair and scratches lightly at his scalp, shaking his head. He thinks going to the doctors is a good idea, but he can cart himself over there. "No, honestly, I’m- I’m fine. I don’t want to cause any trouble."

He thinks staying is a good idea too, because if he really does have a concussion then he could end up in a hell of a lot of trouble, but he doesn’t want to put Bucky out of his way. He’s unbelievably grateful for the help he’s already been given, but he doesn’t want to push this. Whatever Bucky’s giving him, the hospitality, and the help. He doesn’t want to take too much, and because he’s not used to getting help, he doesn’t know how much is too much.

Bucky ignores the strange contentment in his chest at seeing Steve sleepy and sprawled out on his couch. He has a heart too big for the rest of him, Bucky can tell already, and it’s the most endearing and wonderful thing about him. He’s never met anyone quite like Steve, and he wishes that he could stay a little longer than just one night. Perhaps he’s being fanciful, but he’s always been a little prone to that.

"You sure?" he asks, watching as Steve’s hand runs through his hair before snapping his gaze back to the other’s face, "I don’t mind, seriously. I could run you over there tomorrow morning as soon as it’s open."

He’s not questioning the protective urge he feels towards Steve for now, though he knows it’s going to be the inspiration for more than a few poems in the coming weeks. It feels like a thing that is alive inside of him, something a little more fierce than the rest of him.

Steve knows there’s food on the way, but the longer he lies here, in the warm, knowing he’s safe and pretty damn content, the sleepier he gets. He would take his glasses off again, because they’re hurting his eye, but then he knows he wouldn’t be able to stay awake. He’ll try to wait; he really is kind of hungry, and he needs to pay his share for the pizza anyway, when it arrives.

He purses his lips as he thinks about it. He could go to the doctor. Might be good for him. But if he really has got a broken rib, or a concussion, he’ll get referred to the hospital, and that’s the last thing he wants. “I don’t know.” He says, shoulder shrugging. “I’m sure I’ll be fine. But thanks, anyway.”

He gives him a smile, a bright smile, and tries to commit this image of him to memory, looking somewhat worried, his hair tied back. Steve is better at sketching objects whilst he sees them, but he can draw from memory. He wants to draw Bucky as he is now, as Steve has never seen him before. He looks relaxed. Comfortable. It’s a look Steve is beginning to adore.

Bucky can’t help the fond smile as he watches Steve, blue eyes drooping occasionally. He looks shattered, and Bucky is once again glad that he has come here, that he feels comfortable enough to let him play doctor. Perhaps pizza and napping on the sofa isn’t the usual treatment, but it seems to be working just fine for the pair of them. He jumps when the doorbell goes, a startled laugh freeing itself as he gets to his feet, reaching for the jar of money he keeps by the door.

"Cheers," he takes the pizza and the drinks, hands over the money and turns back to Steve. He sits at the end of the sofa next to him so that they can share, ignoring the flush to his own cheeks as their legs brush together.

He feels ridiculous for letting this guy have such an effect on him, but he’s not sure that he can help it. He’s not sure that he wants to.

"Dig in," he grins, picking up a slice and wolfing it down with a moan of satisfaction. He’s always loved pizza, and this place seems to be pretty damn good. Steve is a good judge of food, it seems. It’s a good trait to have.

Steve jumps a little too when the doorbell rings, grinning softly as Bucky gives a surprised sounding laugh. Steve turns, looking towards the door, but he knows what it is; it’ll be their pizza, no doubt. And he’s more tired than hungry now, but he knows he should eat. He didn’t have any lunch or anything, and just because he’s small doesn’t mean he needs less food. He still needs to eat, and even though he’s had an extra cup of coffee to fill in up - and they do fill him up quite easily - he still finds his stomach growls when he smells the pizza.

He smiles when Bucky comes closer, and even though the brush of their legs causes a blush to rise on his cheeks, he leans in closer to grab a piece from the box. He gives him a sheepish sort of smile, and he wishes yet again that he could just get over it, get over this massive crush he has on Bucky.

He spots the colour to the other’s cheeks too though, and he gives a small, satisfied smile as he takes a bite; maybe Bucky likes him too. Too early to tell, but that blush might just work in his favour.

"Thanks." He murmurs. He’s never been that fast of an eater, usually takes his time, but he must be kinda hungry because he certainly eats faster than he normally would. "I’ll pay half, right?"

Bucky shakes his head with a cheeky smile and takes another bite, nudging Steve’s ribs with his elbow. He finishes his pizza slice and reaches for another before he speaks, his voice thick with amusement.

"Nuhuh. This one is on me. I’m playing doctor, okay?"

He continues to eat in comfortable silence, settling with his leg pressed close to Steve’s. He feels kind of embarrassed about how obvious he is being with this crush, but if it means this goes somewhere, he’s not going to feel bad about it. He notices the satisfied smile on Steve’s face, and wonders if they’re both feeling this spark between them.

He certainly hopes so.


End file.
